Bitter Fruit
by TopShelfCrazy
Summary: Is suffering the only harvest from the seeds of cruelty? (A continuation, with permission, of the one-shot fic 'The Lioness's Game' by Madni/TimmyJaybird.) Please note: This fic deals with the aftermath of a rape.
1. Chapter 1

The fic 'The Lioness's Game' is not on but is available other places online. It is not necessary to read it, as its events will become clear in time.

* * *

The door to the queen's chambers, beautifully carved and in places even expertly gilded, closed with a gentle clack.

And Sansa realised it was over.

But it would never be over.

Just moments before, while she had been struggling back into her dress, her mind had been a furious boiling of feelings and questions and terrible black distress.

Yet, now outside, in the quiet of the hall, the internal riot had dwindled down to silence.

 _Why would she do that to me?_ She had wanted to demand an answer. But she realised with morbid calm now that she would never know, and it didn't even matter. The king and queen did as they pleased, and explained themselves to no-one.

She knew how she was meant to feel in the aftermath of her rape; degraded and soiled. And maybe she did feel so, but she didn't want to.

 _They will never stop hurting me until they break me._

She felt as though she was of two minds, fighting against each other.

 _Just break. Weep and wail and let them lock you up as a madwoman. Perhaps they would forget about you then._

But she was a Stark. She could not disgrace her family any further, or let them find her in such a state that only her body had survived; her mind escaping its horror.

As long as she defied them though, these "punishments" would surely only get worse. If she had allowed herself to think of it at all, she imagined it would be Joffrey defiling her in this manner. Why the queen? Why the Hound?

Sansa turned to face Clegane, and found the questions she had for him also sloughed away into apathy. _Why did you let that happen to me?_

How could he have stopped it?

She tried to catch his eyes but his own avoided her with frustrating irony.

 _And was it good to kiss me?_ That was not a thought she should have.

But Sandor would not look at her. Without a word, he turned and walked away, the way they had come, and Sansa knew she was to follow.

Her pace was slower than usual, her legs aching and pain spiking up and down her frame. But she wasn't going to think about why that was, not just now.

She knew he had been as unwilling to be the queen's plaything as she was; his whispered remarks had been the only comfort afforded her.

"None of this foulness touches you, little bird. The queen is a sow wallowing in her sty. She can roll you in mud but she can't make you swine as well."

Somehow it had been the right words to give her strength. His eyes had held guilt, but she didn't need his guilt. She had needed his caresses and gentle touch, making her feel calm, making her feel almost… nice. She would nearly have forgotten Cersei was there at all if she hadn't forced Sansa to bow before her like a dog.

Even at the memory of that, the anger and shame that should have consumed her were strangely lacking. Was it because everything had been wrung from her and left her worn, frail, trembling?

The queen had soured even those few shocking shreds of enjoyment that lying with the Hound had brought her with that act. Making Sansa touch _herself_ in place of his warm fingers, making her be blind to the astonishing expressions he had made from entering her body.

Cersei had taken _everything_ she could from Sansa. Her maidenhead, her dignity, the mysteries of the marriage-bed, and any familiarity with the man forced to couple with her.

From the moment that curious sense of _fulfilment_ at the finale had fled her body, she had felt like a shadow. As if to affirm her corporeal nature, she idly traced her finger over the join of mortar between the stones on the wall as she walked past. The sun had only just set, yet already the castle held a morbid chill.

 _It's rough_ , she thought. _And the stone so cold. Not warm like Winterfell. This whole place is colder than winter._

The thought made her almost let out a barely-stifled giggle, and that made her realise for truth that something was wrong with her. Slowly, her head dragged towards the man escorting her, and upon seeing his face, she knew that he thought something was wrong with her as well. But the Hound said nothing.

Sansa let her arm drop from the wall, but the roughness of it and the feeling of being attached to it had comforted her, so she raised her hand back up again. Her fingers were covered in dust.

The walk back to her chamber seemed ten times farther than ever before. Every step had been a splinter into some delicate _core_ she had rarely before sensed. Into what must be her womb.

Finally she found herself outside the doorway to her chamber. Sandor Clegane paused in front of it, and she paused as well. She stared at the door, thinking of what was behind it.

Her past as a child.

Her future as a woman.

In silence except for the squeak of his mail and leather, Clegane finally moved to open the door, but even after it swung all the way open, Sansa didn't move.

"Into your cage you go, little bird," Sandor said to her gruffly but quietly.

Still she didn't move. She didn't want to go in there. It _was_ a cage, and now she knew for certain she would never be free. Despite what the Queen said, the Tyrells would surely learn of what had happened, or Willas would discover it on their wedding night. Either way, she was too ruined to be a high Lord's bride. And Ser Dontos, who she had so desperately placed her hopes on, had done nothing but offer her empty words.

The man beside her though, _he_ had offered her _action_ , a chance for freedom right then and there, with no conditions or promises. Now, his warm hand pressed against her back and pushed her gently back to her confinement, but for the first time in her life, Sansa resisted, digging her heels into the ground.

"Little bird," he whispered, the pressure on her back lifting.

"You told me to do as I was bid," she said blandly. His fingers clenched slightly against her.

"Aye, I did," he admitted, still soft yet rough. "It could have been much worse."

Sansa turned to look at him, and the anger that had been curiously absent from her thoughts finally made an appearance. She knew it could have been worse! She knew that! But how could he say that to her _right now_? Did he truly have no regard for how she felt? Her lower lip began to quiver, and for the first time, it was the Hound who averted his eyes from her face.

"Go to sleep, little bird, and this will have just been a nightmare," he turned to go, his head lowered slightly. Desperate, her arm snapped out, and she caught his sleeve with her fingertips.

"Don't leave me," she whispered. She knew her eyes must be wide with fear and strangely, his became wide as well.

"I'm scared," she confessed. "What if she makes me go back tonight, or tomorrow, and there's someone else?" Sansa felt the bile rising in her throat to even think about it, but if she went into the lonely darkness of her rooms now, that's all she'd have in her thoughts for the entire night.

"That's likely what she has planned, little bird," he spat out, looking as disgusted by the thought as she felt. "She's as sick as Joffrey, in her own way."

Sansa reached out, clawing at the front of his breastplate weakly.

"Please don't let it happen to me," she begged, tears finally making slow trails down her cheeks. The sight of them suddenly riled him from his habitual simmering anger to almost a frenzy of rage. He alternately pulled his lip into his mouth to bite, and drew it back to bare his teeth. By his side, his fists clenched until the leather of his gloves creaked.

"You refused my offer," he growled savagely.

"It was not… there was another, who had already pledged to help me. I didn't want to waste his efforts," she babbled, knowing what she said sounded absurd. "But he hasn't saved me, and the Tyrells said they'd wed me to Willas, but they won't now, I'm ruined, and now it's too late for him to save me either…" Her hands twisted into little fists against his chest.

"Who?" The Hound rasped, his voice filled with murder. Sansa quailed back against the door frame. She hadn't thought he would be critical of anyone else helping her, after he had offered to himself. Was he angry she considered someone more competent and trustworthy than him? _Ser Dontos isn't either of those things, though. Why didn't I leave after the battle? Why?_

"I… I won't tell, I don't want him to die as a traitor," she peeped. She could hear his teeth grinding together. But he had no further offer or words. It seemed the whim to assist her had passed from him. Unless…

The Queen wanted to degrade her, treat her as less than a human. Sansa wouldn't let her. She could be strong. With a monstrous effort, she took her gaze to the only means of escape left to her. Her eyes fell onto the Hound's sword.

"Please don't let it happen to me again," she whispered, but calmly this time, beseeching him gently. Before he could reply, she reached out boldly, almost thoughtlessly, feeling as though she were in a dream. Her hand rested lightly on the pommel. Clegane's dark eyes widened, then narrowed, and his lips drew back in a snarl. His ferocity comforted her. He could go through with this. The Hound thought nothing of killing a young girl. Her hand tightened on the hilt, cupping the pommel as though it were a means of support. She couldn't help but think of his other sword, so close to her hand, which had so recently been inside her. Now the steel one would enter her as well.

Without saying a word, his right hand moved to grip the hilt, pushing her delicate fingers aside. He drew it smoothly, and a shiver passed up her spine at the whisper of death she heard between the sheath and the sword. As he had on the rooftop that night, he laid the steel against her throat, so softly it didn't even feel sharp. She was afraid now, but only of the sword, not of him.

"Is this what you want?" Sandor asked, sounding gentle despite the ever-present gravel of his voice.

With what she hoped was a grace befitting a high Lady at her execution, she bowed her head, exposing the slender nape of her neck to Sandor Clegane.

Sansa let out her breath in one long exhale, then brought it back in again through her nose, savouring the cold entering her sinuses. She was of the North. It was right that she be cold, in the end.


	2. Chapter 2: Ash

Eddard Stark had faced his executioner silently, and with dignity.

Sansa Stark faced her own with trembling hands, but in these last seconds of her life she wanted only to behave in a manner that would have made her father proud to see.

"The choice is mine then," the headsman growled.

And with those words of finality, Sansa felt time and worry and fear all slip away from her, as though fleeing in anticipation of the sword's slash. Her quivering heart was submerged by a sense of peace and clarity. She could be with Lady soon. And father.

"Pack your clothes and jewels, we're leaving," the Hound snapped, and in the same instant he spun her by the shoulder and pushed her through the doorway to her chamber. Sansa stumbled forwards, not entirely sure what was going on.

As she turned back to question him, he pulled her door closed and was gone. Sansa stared at the wood planks, mouth open in shock. What had just happened? Did he not understand her intent? What had he just said?

We're leaving.

Sansa stood just inside the doorway of the now dark room, her mind a swirling vortex. She tried hard to hold on to that single solid point in the centre, the knowledge that she had to pack, now. But what should she take? Her dresses, which barely fit? Her good riding boots, that was certain.

Well, first I must stoke the fire or I'll hurt myself stumbling through the dark, she determined. It was good to have a task to do, to quiet her flustered thoughts. When the fire had begun to come back to life she took herself to her dresser and opened the drawers one by one, determining what she needed.

She looked over her jewellery, combs and ribbons impassively. What would be worth gold to someone? Setting a wide handkerchief on her lap she scooped the entire contents of the dresser into it, discarding the scraps of silk that normally kept the jewels separate and safe. The resulting bundle was larger than the handkerchief could easily accommodate.

She threw a few of the older, chipped combs back into the drawer. They had been given to her by her mother, but she was the only one who would treasure them now. It was a small price to pay to be in her lady mother's arms once more.

There was still too much for the handkerchief to carry. It vexed her to leave anything valuable behind, but clearly she had to choose. Her eyes settled on the small vial of skin oil that she had begun to use since she arrived at the Southern court. Many of the ladies here used a variety of oils, lotions and powders. Her septa had always condemned such things as vain, but it had been so hard to resist when surrounded by the fair beauties of the Red Keep.

She removed the vial from the parcel and placed it back with the old combs. Her skin would become drier if she didn't use it, and and wrinkle like parchment when she became old. She had always hoped to have skin as smooth and clear as Cersei's as she aged. The thought of the queen's beauty now soured her stomach, and she had no more regrets about leaving the oil.

With a jolt of distress, Sansa realised she was dawdling. She could not afford to waste time. If the Hound came back and found her not ready he would be furious; maybe he would leave without her then, just as he had threatened to do before. Her stomach, or something lower than that, ached tremendously from her panic.

She rose and went to her wardrobe, quickly pulling out several dresses; those with the thickest material. With the dresses and bundle on her bed and her riding shoes on her feet, Sansa felt she had gathered all she could. She worried about food, but Clegane had not told her to fetch any, and what if he returned while she was away? If she missed this opportunity to flee Sansa would never forgive herself.

Thrumming with agitation, she began folding the selected dresses neatly. She kept two aside, one to wrap around the handkerchief bundle, which was still too bulgy, and the other to wrap the rest of the folded dresses in. When that was done she sat on the bed alongside her two bundles, unable to keep her hands from wringing together or smoothing out her skirts again and again. How were they to escape? How would they avoid being seized by the guards? Where would they go?

No, I must trust him, and cease thinking about these worries. If he does not know how to achieve them, I surely never would. So it does no good to contemplate it.

To keep her mind clear of thoughts of the future, Sansa looked at the two dress bundles, and tried to picture in her mind some memories of days she had worn those particular gowns. She remembered that she had worn her green dress in the godswood once. She had sat there for a long while on a bench under a tree prematurely shedding its leaves. She had chosen that one as the signs of winter reminded her of home.

She recalled that incident clearly, as much later in the day she had lain down on her bed to rest and heard a crunching sound underneath her. It had been a leaf, caught on the back of her gown. She had been so embarrassed, to think she had spent the better part of a day walking around with a leaf stuck to her. It was something Arya would have done.

It struck her now as being ridiculously trivial, both for her to have been so upset by the incident, as well as to remember it so vividly. If only she could choose which experiences to keep with her, and which to discard as unworthy of remembrance. Then she could blot out this whole evening... and in an instant, a floodgate opened and anguish crashed down into her.

It was almost physical; her whole body spasmed and she fell to her knees before the bed. She hadn't let herself think about the dull pain inside her.It was just another beating, she repeated to herself helplessly. But it wasn't, and there was no Queen, no Hound, no task present any longer to distract her.

She bit her hand to stop the howl coming out, but the tears were remorseless. It struck her as foolish to weep for the loss of this final thing, after so much of her family and her people had been lost to her already. She should be acclimatised to having anything she cherished torn from her. But normally it was not quite so visceral...

Her torment was blessedly interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and her sobs were cut short by ease of ready practice. The memories scattered, but instantly a new anxiety appeared. Sansa was at the door within a heartbeat, opening it with shaking hands, but just enough to peek out of and no more.

There was no light at all in the hallway. Had the lanterns been snuffed out? Blinking, she was able to make out a dark shape that was at once both distressing and comforting. It made a muffled hiss.

"Open the door."

Sansa stepped back, swinging the door with her. Clegane slipped in as noiselessly as a shadow, unnerving her. Was he wearing no armour? She peered at him now he had come into the firelight and saw he was wearing only a few pieces of his darkened plate; mostly just boiled leather and no mail. Lacking the components that protected the joins was preventing the normal clamour of plate, but leaving much of his vulnerabilities exposed. She knew he was a formidable fighter, but whether or not he would be able to avoid injury with such inferior armour was added to her already considerable list of worries.

"Here, put this on," he rasped. Sansa grappled the cloth he thrust at her, then opened it for inspection.

"A septa's cowl?" She asked.

"Put it on," he repeated with obvious lack of patience. She glanced at him, worried he was angry with her, and saw he had an expression of frightening distress. It didn't quell her own to realise he was just as troubled as she was.

Sansa hurried to her mirror and awkwardly tried to wrap it around her head and tuck all her hair away. She had never donned one herself nor seen it done, and the result was obviously unsuitable. She made to undo it when he snapped again.

"Don't bother fixing it, no-one will notice. Put this cloak on and pull up the hood," he passed her another armful of cloth. The cloak was coarse and heavy, and the pin almost stiff with rust. When she fumbled with it the Hound nipped it from her grasp and settled it for her. "Where are your things, girl?" he demanded.

Sansa fled to the bed and tried to pick up a bundle under each arm. She struggled for only a moment before one of them was wrested away from her abruptly.

"Now, follow me, keep your head down and say nothing to anybody, even if they address you. No buggering foolishness about being impolite. You understand?" He rasped. Sansa nodded, then followed it with a demure affirmation.

"Yes, I understand."

Without saying another word Clegane turned on his heel and left, Sansa scrambling to catch up. He set a pace so vigorous she had to limp in a halting run, sure beyond doubt they would be obviously noticeable in their haste. She soon found she needn't have worried, as when they reached the main thoroughfare it was bizarrely full of activity.

People were running, everyone with determination or worry on their face, but all in seemingly different directions. In the distance, Sansa could hear men shouting. Was it coincidence there was turmoil just as they made their escape?

"What is happening?" Her dread of capture was transformed into alarm for what would be causing such calamity.

"A distraction," was the growled reply. Sansa was prompted to wonder again about his haunted countenance and agitation. Had he killed someone so they could flee without notice? Someone important? She was surprised that the thought of the King or Queen dead caused a heavy worry in her belly rather than joy. But it would serve the Queen right for what she did to me.

Fleeing as they were now, they would be hunted by the crown already, but if they were fugitives from the death of royalty there would be no end of attempts to track them down. She prayed silently to the Father that Clegane knew what he was doing. She had to place her trust in him. She had already placed her life in his hands once tonight. What does it matter now if I lose it due to his folly? She told herself, but it didn't quell her concern.

The kingsguard at the gates of the Holdfast were not stopping the flow of human traffic. In fact they looked as though they wished desperately to join it, but were compelled to stay at their posts. Sansa began to realise there was no likelihood of sudden capture as they climbed the Serpentine in great painful leaps that left her panting and practically clutching at the Hound's cloak to not be left behind, nor swept up in the mass of people running alongside them.

They made their way towards the stables, the Hound easily making a path that Sansa could follow. She ran so close behind him she half stumbled into him several times when he paused, but he never made a complaint or even took notice, despite her timid apologies.

The stables were not immune from the confusion, as many of the horses were making distressed-sounding noises and prancing about in their stalls. Sansa was at a loss as to why the horses would be as agitated as the people of the keep, when she realised that the usually overpowering smell of the stables was overlaid with something else.

Smoke.


	3. Chapter 3: Descent

Sansa stopped dead in her tracks, clutching her parcel tightly and trying to catch her breath after their flight. All the air brought into her nose and mouth was clearly flavoured with smoke. A fire? She looked about frantically, but could see no sign of it, and the stablehands were clearly occupied with calming the horses, not releasing them or quenching any flames. It must be further away.

She suddenly remembered she should be following the Hound, and looked about for him. Ice slithered down her spine when she could not spot him anywhere. She scuttled forward, looking into every stall as she passed, trying to see around the horses for any familiar figures.

"Get over here!" Someone yelled out, and she tried to hide behind a post before she realised it was Clegane's voice. She hurried towards the call, to find him leading a black horse towards her; a brown horse's lead was tied to its saddle, following behind.

Sansa went to place her bundle in one of the black steed's saddlebags. The Hound pressed her away effortlessly as the horse skittered.

"No, keep away from this one," he stated, and brusquely took her dresses from her to pack away. "Stay by the gelding, and keep up, no matter what." Having said that, he took the lead of his horse again, taking them out of the stables. Sansa tugged her hood further down her head and held it closed under her chin.

It seemed no-one took much interest in them though, and even those that did had only to see the Hound, and then they very quickly had other things to do somewhere else. As soon as they were out in the courtyard the Hound began to jog, the horses clipping alongside him, but for Sansa it was a run.

Her inner body, where she thought her womb must be, spasmed with pain. Her throat began to burn and she was sorely afraid she would be left behind and lost in the crowds.

"Please!" She called out desperately. He stopped and turned to her, furious. "It's agony!" She meant the whole of her, but his eyes dropped down to her hips, and the fury fell off his face. With muffled words Sansa was sure were curses, he lifted her up and placed her in the gelding's saddle.

"You keep your head down!" he hissed. Sansa bent forward, her head almost touching the horse's neck. She saw now why he had chosen to lead his horse rather than ride, as the outer courtyard seemed full of milling people, many just darting about. A few other riders were trying to make their way through the crowd on skittish mounts, and making no better progress than they were.

She heard the Hound yelling at people to get out of the way, and his horse screamed with him, but the sound of steel being drawn was absent. That didn't stop her heart from continuing to beat in her chest like a drum. In fact, it was now harder, not easier, for her to breathe, and the smell of smoke was filling her sinus, burning her face. How could Sandor bear it? She looked up to catch a glimpse of him and finally saw it.

The Small Hall was on fire.

The whole roof was alight, and flames were pouring out the upper windows. The lower ones were still empty of fire, and there were still men running in and out of the building, carrying water or trying to salvage things.

It was fortunate Sansa was riding, or she would have stopped once more. The fire was terrifying, but strangely compelling. Her head turned to keep watching the spreading and sinuous flames as they moved past it, only looking away when they reached the gates.

The gate was open, possibly to let in assistance, but the guards were agitated and restless. The shortest one seemed the boldest, as he held up a hand in greeting at Clegane's approach.

"Move!" The Hound roared at them, and even Sansa quailed back in terror. "It's a crisis, you slack-faced cunts!"

With stammered words, the guards darted aside, and the Hound went through at a clip, spurring his horse into almost a canter. Outside, crowds had gathered, loudly trying to guess which building of the Keep was burning.

While the inside courtyard had been filled with frightened cries and barked orders, amongst the smallfolk the mood was almost jovial. How they must hate their King, to be happy to see his stronghold burn down, Sansa mulled. Well, I hate him too, so what do I care? The Hound's horse had taken the lead, and the catcalls and laughter soon turned to outrage as it bore down, snorting and eager.

Clegane broke into a sprint alongside it, periodically slapping its flank to direct its eager path-clearing. As the only one the crowd could see, Sansa felt almost responsible for the chaos. Her gelding kept up, but was obviously as upset to be associated with the black stallion as Sansa was, as he kept tugging on the lead from one side to the other. At least it distracted her from thinking of the last time she had been upon a horse surrounded by smallfolk.

The mob thinned out as they got further away, and finally the Hound called out to his mount and swung onto it.

"Hood down," he snapped at her, and then pressed forward. Sansa took no chances, and put her whole head down, making herself as small as possible. The streets were mostly empty in the early night, but news of the commotion at the Keep seemed to have spread already, as there were people standing at windows and in doorways. A stout man called out as they were slowed by a line of poorly parked carts.

"Is it another army attacking us, then?"

Clegane did not even acknowledge his presence. Sansa yearned to answer and put his worries at ease, but she knew it would bring down the Hound's wrath on her later, and before she could decide if it were worth it, they were past, the man's yelled insults faintly trailing them.

It wasn't much longer before Sandor's horse suddenly came to stop, her own almost colliding with it. The black stallion flicked his tail sharply in the gelding's face, and her mount cantered backwards. Sansa peeked up from the horse's neck and saw they were at the Old Gate, with guards bustling towards them. Clegane didn't wait for them to address him.

"Has any bugger approached this gate tonight?" He yelled out, sounding impatient and angry.

"No, my lord," a roundish guard said, looking resolutely at the Hound's chest. "Is something going up at the castle? There's been talk-"

"Of course something is going on at the fucking castle," Clegane spat. "There's been sabotage, and you lot better keep your eyes sharp as knives on everyone that leaves this city in the morning, you hear?" He wheeled his stallion about in front of the small group of gold cloaks, who calmly but unmistakably backed away.

"Yes, my lord," their apparent leader agreed.

"And take note of anyone who seems to be watching the coming and goings, or who asks too many questions. Don't breathe a fucking word that you know anything about the Keep to a single soul, not even your wrinkled old mothers." He pushed his mount forward again, towards the gateway.

"Open this thing up. Some messages can't be entrusted to birds," he said with a sneer, and Sansa felt like she should take offence to his words, though she didn't know why.

The guards sprang into action, but the portly man stayed put, looking at Clegane and, Sansa sucked in a nervous breath when she realised it, eyeing her as well.

"What is going on up there?" The man asked in a low tone.

"The less you know, the less you can spread around like midwives gossip," Clegane snapped. "It's bloody chaos up there, but unless things get a whole lot worse we need men holding the gates more than we need them tripping over their feet trying to fight the fires."

The guard's eyes widened noticeably and Sansa wondered how Clegane could be so foolish as to let such words slip, after speaking about the need for secrecy.

"I understand, my lord," the gold cloak said with a grimace. The gate had been opened up enough to let riders through, and Sansa's heart fluttered with uneasy excitement at the prospect of passing out of this city once and for all.

Before he pressed his horse forward, however, the Hound raised his head and spoke loud enough for all the men at the gate to hear.

"Speak nothing to anyone of what's happened at the Keep and nothing of what happened here. There are going to be heads rolling after tonight, and they'll include yours if you're fucking fools," and with that, his horse took off at a good pace, the gelding pulled into a trot close behind. Clegane didn't look back once, and neither did Sansa.

They were not far out of the gates when his horse suddenly turned left off the road, charging over the heath parallel to the city walls. Sansa was confused, but said nothing, as she had been bid. They picked their way between cottages, through high grass and the occasional thicket of trees, still in plain view of the walls.

In the darkness, and with the inner city faintly lit by the distant fire, Sansa hoped they would not be noticed. Her arms began to ache from how tightly she gripped the reigns, but every time she forced herself to relax, she quickly found herself tense again soon after. She shivered from the cold, but equally felt sweat pouring down her spine.

Finally they sighted another road, and the Hound turned to approach the city again, on a course to meet the magnificent Lion Gate. Sansa had to swallow down her cries of confusion, fearing any attention. Had he changed his mind so quickly? In a sudden flash, the thought came to her to untie her horse, and ride away down the road, into the night, by herself. The reins felt loose against the slickly wet palms of her hands.

But she did nothing. Nothing except clench and unclench her hands around the now-warm leather, and struggle against sharp tears. They went down the road a while, each step tightening her throat. And then just before reaching the gate, casually, Clegane led his horse over the other side, into the ragtag groups outside the city walls; caravans bunkered down for the night, eagerly awaiting entry the next morning to a city desperate for supplies. Despite the hour, there were many lit fires and roaming figures. To Sansa each one seemed sinister, including those clearly belonging to children. Just a few hours previous the sight of the poor and struggling vagabonds would have pierced her heart with pity, but now it seemed instead they were piercing it with fear. Even so, she followed demurely as the Hound slowed his horse and wove his way leisurely through the camp.

Sansa wondered if he were looking for someone, or if he intended to join the group. If these folk meant to leave the city rather than enter it, perhaps it would best to travel with them. There would be food, and no-one would look for a lady amongst such a company. Furtively, she clenched her hood tighter down and tried to stop herself from peering around like an outsider. It would be terrible to compromise their deception before it had even begun.

They continued on, through the darkness patched with small lights, winding through tiny lanes, squeezing through places she would not have expected one to take horses. Their progress seemed painfully slow, but she could feel new patience in her from the need to be nothing unusual in this place. She could see little, but smell much. The paths the stallion ahead led her horse down stank, not so much as the low streets of the city on the hot summer days, but rather the fetid air of a small place well-lived in.

Would I rather have lived here in the dirt, than be beaten, raped, hurt?

Sansa didn't know, and didn't want to. She plucked it out of her mind and focused on the smell of the horse under her. Warm, smoky and salty.

Her forehead tapped against the gelding's bushy mane, waking her suddenly. Or did it? Had she been asleep? The sky was still dark, darker than before. No gentle glows from fire pits lit up the night.

She sat up, and at once came to regret it. Her back, neck, legs, tummy; all ached. Sansa felt as though her entire world had diminished down to pain. She couldn't even have named all the ways she was suffering, if she had been asked. She couldn't have named much of anything. The horse swung her backward and forward, and fatigue swung her downward. She fought it desperately, more afraid of what would happen if she fell asleep than she could be afraid of the torture it was to stay awake.

She just needed close her eyes and rest her brow on the horse's warm neck. She simply had to.

When Sansa woke again, it was as sharply as if she had never been asleep. Her arms grasped the horse's neck like a vice, and her feet scrabbled for purchase against its belly. She was falling, dropping to the ground to break her neck! The poor beast protested against her heels kicking into it with a whinny that was brutally loud in the night's silence.

So rigid with fear was Sansa that she didn't even hear Clegane dismount his horse or approach her, and at his sudden touch she startled with a terrible spasm. The horse rocked back and then jerked forward as her companion gripped its reins sharply.

His other hand returned to her hip, warm and solid as the stones that Winterfell was built from. Still her body fought against being handled, but he held her and the gelding firmly, until slowly they both relented. Then he picked her up with both arms, and she tried to relax as much as she could as he shuffled her around, doing something she could not discern nor care about.

"Only a brief time," a dry voice scraped over her ears as she was laid down, finally, on the cold but blessedly flat and motionless ground. Hands continued to work over whatever was covering her, but she was heedless of his fussing.

Her eyes shut with the finality a drawbridge; finally sheltered, finally safe.


	4. Chapter 4: Sleepwalking

Sansa woke to the rising sun, her body as stiff as wood. The Hound was pawing at her, gently pushing her aside and up, trying to rouse her. She tried to inform him she would be up in a minute, but to her horror, a most unladylike grunt was the only sound she made, followed by a whine of shame.

To her relief, he didn't mock her, simply brought her up so she was sitting, pulling her forward to rest against his shoulder. All she could do was whimper and pant; her body was a used-up, wrung-out rag. His shoulder was uncomfortable; she felt the sharp press of metal against her forehead and he smelt awful, but her eyes shut again and she began to slip into slumber pillowed against him.

She woke again she knew not how long later, and this time she was in his arms, and he was pressing her against something warm. Looking about in a daze, she realised it was a horse, the doleful looking gelding.

"Get into the saddle. I'll strap your legs to the stirrups," Clegane was telling her. At least, she thought it was him. His grating voice was surprisingly soft and gentle, it almost sounded fatherly. Must not be the Hound, then, she decided.

But she had no strength to refuse anything she was bid do, so she let him place her in the saddle as a man would ride, too tired to feel embarrassed for her bare calves. He bound her feet loosely to the stirrups and left her sitting there, still unable to open her eyes. After a few minutes in which she thought she might sleep even sitting up, she heard him calling out to her.

"Ready? We're moving again."

Her journey with the Hound was immensely less comfortable than the last time she travelled across the kingdom, and also far more confusing. They picked their way through sparse woodland, sometimes almost meeting the road and at other times heading away from it, and always at a pace that left branches and bushes slapping against them.

The uneven ground led to their horses lurching down gullies and over thick underbrush without warning, each one a jolt of sharp pain into her healing womanhood. But Sansa never wanted to complain. Every step they took was a step further from the capital, the Red Keep, the queen's chambers.

After that initial mad dash, their regular pattern seemed to become hiding in a hollow or deep grove during the height of the day, and riding during the night. They were fortunate that the moon was waxing to full, and the night was well-lit.

Very bright, it felt, after she spent the days with her eyes closed. The few travellers they saw, they hurried past, Clegane flicking at them in dismissive greeting if any tried to hail them.

Sansa rode with her head downcast, not so much to hide her face as simply because she had no strength to raise herself up straight. She knew she must look wretched, but she couldn't care. She was only with the Hound, and why would he mind? He'd have no call to criticise her, even if he wanted to. The few times she saw him in the light, as they were hiding for the day or packing up in the twilight, he looked as horrid as she felt.

His skin was almost ashen, and he looked even older than her father. It had mildly concerned her that he may drop dead and leave her alone in the woods, but only mildly. It even seemed vaguely funny to Sansa how little the notion bothered her; she was simply too tired to feel emotion.

She did notice that he ate barely more than she did, and several times when they stopped to make water she heard him retching. It was truly abysmal luck that he would get ill just as they were escaping. It could have been the hardship itself that weakened him, but he'd always seemed to her to be of a hardy disposition. Maybe he wasn't so strong as she thought.

His own lack of appetite didn't stop him from forcing food on her at exhaustingly regular intervals. Sansa found she had no desire to eat at all, even if he had been offering her fruits and cakes and sweets. What the Hound was offering her was black bread, rock-like cheese and what he claimed was meat - Sansa was certain he was just cutting pieces off his saddle and feeding them to her.

At first she simply nibbled over the hours as they rode, or placed it amongst her packs for when hunger might visit her once more. But after he found some of her food stashed away there, he insisted on watching her eat it every time, even if she begged that it made her sick. Even if she cried. He was the worst man in the whole world.

At least she was getting better at staying awake as they rode. Only once she almost fell off her horse again, and had to call out to Sandor with a child's wail. He came and took her to ride in front of him, so she could sleep. It was humiliating, and immensely comforting, so she made the effort to shake herself alert after that.

After several days, or nights, her aches subsided and her vigour hesitantly returned. Sansa decided she should begin to assist in unloading the horses. It shamed her she had been as useless as a doll all this time, and she wanted to assure him she would not take his efforts for granted.

That day when the Hound stopped and began unsaddling his horse, which was the signal it was time to rest, Sansa didn't wait to be helped from the gelding. She slipped down and started undoing buckles and straps. Eventually she ran out of obvious clasps and had to wait for Sandor's assistance, but she made sure to watch what he did carefully, so she could copy it the next time.

He gave her a look that seemed almost appraising, and Sansa's heart rose for the first time in what seemed a hundred years. But as she regarded him, it dropped again, into her tummy. She knew he was in a bad state, but she hadn't realised how bad.

He looked dreadful. If he had been lying down, she would have thought him dead.

"My lord..." she began, then held her tongue. He looked up at her, but without rancor at her polite address. That's when Sansa began to panic.

"Are you well?" She asked breathlessly. Sansa knew if he died during their sleep she would soon come to envy him, as her own demise would be less kind. She knew nothing of travelling alone. He made a snorting laugh sound and shrugged, shaking out his bedroll. "What's wrong? Is it sickness?" He shook his head. With no need to avoid him to keep from catching sick herself, she approached and went to help him spread his blankets on the ground.

"What're you doing, little bird?" He asked gruffly, and entirely too gently for Sansa's comfort. It shook her in a way the many pains and troubles in the last few days had not.

"Are you very fatigued?" She asked, not keeping her concern out of her voice. He snorted again.

"I should say buggering so," he grated, and dropped down onto the bedroll like a rock. Sansa stared down at him, at a loss for what to do.

"Let us stay here for as long as you need to rest then," she suggested, then bent over to tuck his cloak around him better. He gave her a withering look. Sansa couldn't help but feel encouraged his temper wasn't lost for good. It meant he probably wasn't going to die.

"Never going to rest well on the ground under the sun. 'Sides, it's not rest I'm aching for." He rubbed a rough hand over his face, and the stubble together with his dry skin made a scraping sound. "It's wine."

Sansa sighed. Really, even now all he could care about was wine? She fetched her own bedroll and laid it near his, but she felt agitated still.

"The air is brisk and we've been days without warmth besides our cloaks. I could make a fire," she told him.

"No," he replied.

"Is there nothing I can do to help you? I could fetch you the water skin," she suggested. He grunted.

"Was that a yes or a no?" She demanded primly. He grunted.

Sansa scoffed and turned her head. Impossible.

"I just want to help," she mumbled. Finally he stirred.

"I don't want your buggering help," he rasped.

"But, you helped me," Sansa said softly. She pulled her cloak tight around her. He could have done so much more to help her, if he had been a true knight. But he still helped her.

"Too little too late, you seem to think," he snarled. Sansa started. When had she said that? She tried to think. She didn't remember talking to him much over the past few days, but she remembered very little of their escape. Had she lost her temper with him in her poor state at some time?

She lay down, shouldering her back against him for warmth and searched her memory. The harder she tried to chase her memories, the harder sleep chased her, and eventually Sansa lost the pursuit.

* * *

This time when she woke, it was dark. It was so unexpected she sat up in alarm. She was greeted with the relatively serene scene of the Hound sitting on his bedroll next to her, rubbing a piece of his armour with a soft cloth. Beside them a small fire crackled in a pit, covered over with wood so only the smallest amount of light escaped it. She could feel the pleasant warmth had seeped into her while she slept though, because she felt better than she had since they left the capital.

"And you said I was fatigued," Clegane chuckled. "You sleep more than the laziest squire."

Sansa bristled at his rudeness, then felt her irritation transform into joy. If he was mocking her, he must be well again! She couldn't make out his pallor in the dark, but he seemed at ease, not slumped and drawn like he had been previously.

"Thank you for giving me time to recover," she said sweetly, knowing as well as he did the delay was for his benefit. He laughed brusquely again, and kept at his work.

"Eat something. There's food in here," he paused for a moment to pass a saddlebag from his side over to her. Sansa dug through it in the dark and drew out one of the wrapped parcels inside. To her disappointment, it was bread, not cheese.

Sighing, she tore off a piece, which was such a difficult task she almost felt ready to sleep again by the time she was done. She certainly didn't relish eating the dreadful thing. With nothing to do but chew and try to ignore the woody taste and texture, Sansa slowly recalled everything that had taken place last night. Well, not night. Last day. It was so strange, sleeping at odd hours. She supposed she should just think of it as, the last time she was awake.

He had accused her of thinking his efforts to help her were meagre. Sansa couldn't deny wishing he had saved her sooner, but she knew perhaps she was partially at fault for that. She certainly didn't recall ever saying such to him, so he had no right to assume it.

"Please don't think me ungrateful," she said demurely. It wouldn't do to be belligerent with him, especially not if she was trying to convince him of her goodwill. Even if he had been shockingly rude to make such a statement to her. Clegane looked up momentarily, then back down to his work without replying. Sansa subdued her ire.

"I never said such a thing as you suggested," she protested mildly. "That I thought your help 'too little too late'," she mimicked.

"You didn't have to say it," he said without acknowledging her any other way. "No-one asks for their throat cut without reason." His voice was astonishingly bitter, and Sansa felt she might have offended him with her desperate and morbid entreaty. Why? He was the butcher, and proud of it.

The disturbing feeling this gave her robbed her of the satisfaction to be gleaned from correcting his uncharitable thoughts of her. Looking at the red glow of the wood, a vivid memory broke into Sansa's mind. She pondered it for a while, and then spoke carefully.

"When we left… when we escaped the Red Keep...," she began in a purposefully calm voice. His head rose, waiting patiently for her to continue. "There was a fire."

He gave no response, not even seeming to blink in the dim light.

"Did you light it?" she asked breathlessly. The gentle sputter of their own fire was barely perceptible, but it opened the doors in Sansa's mind to remember the roaring and crackling of an entire building in flames, accompanied by the screaming of men. It would be a hard thing to forget, and she had never been so close to a fire as… She shuddered though was not cold. But still her companion remained unmoving, as though she were talking to a great rock carved to look like a man. Sansa waited in the emptiness.

She was unnerved to conceive that her cruel ordeal was not so different from a face pressed to the flames. A small boy or a small girl; both were powerless against the wishes of tormentors. And no-one strong enough dared stop it… the resentment bit into her. Could he truly have dared to start a fire so vast, knowing men may burn in it like he did?

"Yes."

The word was there, in the night air, for one instant, and then it was gone. Even as she heard it, she thought she may had imagined it. Sansa had known the truth already but she had to hear it, to truly believe it. Hear it, and see how his lip twitched.


	5. Chapter 5: Turmoil of the Mind

Sansa was disturbed to realise that the only thing in her life that had prepared her for this desperate flight from the capital was, in fact, the beatings and torture she was escaping from. Certainly no lessons from her septa, no instructions from her mother or other ladies had given her even an inkling of what it could be like to travel in the deep forests.

The worst pain had been those first few days, but even now her thighs chafed, her neck and shoulders ached, and her feet ached from when they had to walk. To her surprise, even her face ached. The skin felt tight and painfully itchy, a feeling that didn't go away even when she washed it.

A few more times, she was pulled by the Hound from her saddle and placed on his so she could sleep while riding. He didn't say anything to her or even ask her permission to do so. He just seemed to know when she was about to fall asleep despite her best efforts.

In fact he said very little to her at all. He gave her instructions, told her hazards to watch out for and told her when and where to set a camp. But that was it. He handed her food without asking if she was hungry, and just glowered at her if she hesitated in eating it. There was so much Sansa needed to say to him, but ultimately there was no spirit left in her to attempt it.

Eventually, through the haze of fatigue Sansa realised they must be loosely following a river. Certainly every couple of days one made an appearance; sometimes to the left of them, sometimes to the right, and sometimes directly in front, and surely there couldn't be so many different rivers. Regardless of if it were one or twenty, she was grateful for the fresh water and the ability to dunk herself in it, soothing her saddle wounds and aching muscles. And, shamefully, one of the few times she could make water without feeling the intense burn of shame knowing she was close enough to the Hound that he knew what she was doing.

The only danger was that any time she was off the horse, she was liable to fall asleep within moments, and more than once she had been woken by Clegane from the most horrendously uncomfortable sitting position, waist deep in murky, cold water. Sometimes in those water-sleeps she had the most vivid dreams of swimming and floating like a mermaid. He snapped at her about her ungratefulness to risk drowning after he had saved her, but pulled her out and wrapped her in his cloak all the same.

Her sleep was so disturbed she sometimes wondered if she was still in the Red Keep, dreaming of escaping, and any moment now she would wake up back in her rooms. At those times she felt suffocated by fear. At other times she knew this was reality; that she was in the wilderness with a violent man she depended on for survival like a babe. And that was almost as fearful.

The little solace she had was in the knowledge that she was, finally, going home; going to her family. Even if she had lost her father and her sister and her innocence by her foolish desire to live in the royal court, now she would be loved again, and that was all she'd need to heal. Memories of her mother and brothers were her frequent companions. If she ever let her mind stray from the warm comfort of imagining what her reunion with her mother would be like, or remembering playing with her siblings, then other, more sinister memories made an appearance, without fail.

Sansa was frightened by the surges of wretched fury that broke through her when she thought of what had happened to her. She could only think of it as "the cruel ordeal", for envisioning it under any other name seemed to cut into her bones. It particularly worried her that while it was the queen and Joffrey's faces that sparked her rage, she felt anger at the Hound as well.

Sometimes, she wanted very much to hit him, or sneer at him, or say something vile, as though she would ever be able to hurt the feelings of such a brutish man. She had to remind herself it wasn't his fault, he was ordered to do it just as much as she, and may have forfeited his life if he'd disobeyed. And he'd as good as told her in the past that he was not a valiant knight who would sacrifice himself for a lady's honour. He didn't even believe in such knights. Her mind knew that, but it seemed her heart was not so easily contented, and whenever she thought of the queen, which seemed to be painfully often, the hurt and rage always extended to him as well.

When the misplaced anger swelled up in her, she took to watching him in whatever he was doing. His body, the movement of his shoulders as he rode, his hair, his scars, his hands, until she felt calm and comfortable again. Looking at him did that somehow. He noticed her watching sometimes and scowled or sneered at her, but often now she wanted to rebuke him for his scowls as though he were a little boy, although other times they still saddened her.

Another source of fear was the discovery that after these torturous sessions of anger and then chasing away the face of the queen by watching Sandor, the rest of it remained.

The beginning, where she had watched him, and he her. His touches, his stoic face, and most of all, the intimacy of that painful and pleasurable moment when they joined. And then… the kiss. What followed after the kiss she tried most to never dwell on; it was too bound up in memories of Cersei's smirking face. But somehow the very end, that amazing feeling of being beautifully on fire, merged with the kiss in her mind. It was awful to think about. It made her flare up with a fever, and want to twist around and scream. It made her want to kiss him again.

Sometimes she had thought it would be better to keep the anger in her than face the memory of the kiss, but in the end she always succumbed and let her eyes fall on him, even though she knew the inevitable outcome. The restlessness and frustration this provoked in her, knowing her mind would continue this cycle and she was powerless to stop it, eventually got the better of her, and she had to find another way to distract herself. Taking several deep breaths, she managed to speak through the habitual silence.

"I apologise that I do not know how to follow the lay of the land or the sun, but, could you tell me where we currently are?" Sansa inquired, trying and failing to sound as lighthearted as if they were merely taking a walk.

"Quite a ways north of Bitterbridge, heading west," was the curt reply.

"Ah," she said. She knew that Bitterbridge was located in the Reach, and heading west must be towards the Westerlands, or perhaps the Riverlands if they were north enough? However, it didn't really give her any better sense of position. Why had they gone south at all, instead of north? She desperately wanted more information, but she knew that unless Clegane could produce a map from thin air, she was unlikely to gain a solid understanding of how they would reach Robb's army. Sighing, she decided to let him set the route. But it would be prudent to learn as much about his intentions as she could.

"And where are we aiming to ultimately arrive?" She kept her voice free from mistrust or accusation, although a tingle of fear was present. It had always been present, but she knew if she entertained it, it would grow into a terror. And she needed so badly to believe she was headed straight to her mother's arms. Otherwise what did she have to keep the anger at bay? But judging by the sharp look he gave her, he didn't believe her carefree tone.

"Eventually, to your family," his rasp was worse than usual. The days without using his voice seemed to have made it thicker. "But not directly," he snapped with unnecessary aggression, glaring at her as though she had outright accused him of misleading her.

"Our destination is obvious, so our route has to be as obscure as possible. They can't cover every path. You're worth enough for them to look for you, but too many troops runs the risk of word leaking out that they've lost you." At this he smiled, or perhaps sneered. The two were quite similar on him. "Joffrey must be enraged beyond belief that you've slipped away from him, and with his dog no less. Only having your brother and the entire rest of the land know about it could be more humiliating."

Sansa was surprised that he seemed amused rather than contrite at the prospect of Joffrey's anger. She wanted to question him about it, or thank him once again for what he'd sacrificed for her, but the thought of having a deeper conversation made her feel wracked with exhaustion. Besides, what if he was having regrets? Hearing him give voice to them might tip her over the edge into despair. Courtesy dictated she be grateful for him answering her question, though, so she made the effort.

"My thanks for letting me know," she said, and managed to conjure a smile. The Hound did not appreciate it, giving her another sneer-smile in return, but saying no more. She supposed even he must be tired.

* * *

In the next ramshackle camp they made, among the roots of some old oaks, Sansa woke just after midday and found Clegane had not prepared the horses at all. After tidying herself and folding her cloak and blanket, Sansa fetched the saddlebag with food instead of waiting for him to do it. Inside she found only a small heel of very unfortunate looking cheese, wrapped in a rough cloth. Timidly, she brought it to him. It was so paltry, it couldn't even feed him, let alone both of them.

"Here you are, se-" she said, and held it out. He looked at her hand, and then at her.

"That's what we need to talk about, girl," he rasped. Sansa waited patiently for him to continue. He also seemed to be expecting her to say something, but Sansa had no notion of what it could be. Finally he made a rough harrumph in his throat and plucked the cheese from her fingers.

"We have to go to a village," he said, breaking it in half inside the cloth, then opening it carefully to avoid losing any of the crumbling cheese. Sansa sucked in her breath.

"Is it safe?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders and fished out one of the big pieces of cheese, holding it out to her. Sansa delicately placed her open hand against his. "No, there is so little. You should eat it," she requested, inclining her head respectfully. The Hound sneered.

"Eat the bloody cheese, little chirping bird," he snarled, pushing it into her hand. She fumbled to grasp it, then tried to eat it as delicately as possible. It was so strong and dry, just eating it at all was a challenge. "And of course it will be dangerous," he continued. "But so is starving to death in the wild. We don't have the luxury of a leisurely enough pace for hunting, so we have to get provisions."

He consumed his piece in one bite, then started spooning the cheese crumbs into his mouth as well. "There will be small villages and crofts closer to the road. It's fertile ground around here and little of it goes unused. If we stick to the remote places, there's fewer people will see us."

Sansa nodded, eagerly accepting his superior experience in these matters. A thought occurred to her though, and her forehead creased a little in worry.

"But will the smallfolk of such rural places be able to buy my jewellery and ribbons?" She asked. "Surely they haven't much coin."

The Hound gave her a look like he couldn't decide if she was stupid, infuriating or admirable.

"No, they will not. But I suggest, and this isn't actually a suggestion, that you leave thinking about the details out of your silly bird brain," he finally stood up and moved towards the horses. Sansa clenched her fists until the nails dug into her palms. Despite just waking, she was stiff with cramps, but she suddenly had the energy to strike the Hound. Her mind was still a fog, preventing her from thinking of something to say in reply. As he saddled the horses he glanced at her occasionally, smirking at her obvious anger. Sansa decided that if she could just once get the upper hand over the Hound, she would die satisfied.

She made a point of saying nothing to him after that, even when he spoke his few words to her, although it was terribly rude not to reply. Unfortunately, her lack of courtesy only seemed to amuse him further. She fumed silently that there was nothing she could do to upset him in return. They apparently had already been headed towards the road because they reached it before long, and began travelling parallel to it. As Clegane had said, they soon spied some cultivated fields and a few small cottages. Sansa made a decision and resolved to voice it, no matter if he mocked her.

"If you steal from these people, I will refuse to eat the food," she said tersely, not even affording him a glance. Out of the corner of her eye though, she saw his head snap towards her.

"Brave words for someone who's never faced starvation in their pampered little life," he said derogatorily. Sansa swallowed hard but kept her sights on the approaching houses.

"I ought to do it just to show you how fast your empathy and nobility crumble in the face of reality," he sneered. Sansa started breathing more heavily. If he tried to break her and force her like the Queen had, she would… she would… she would run into the forest, even if it was to her death. She glared ahead of her like the world offended her.

There was silence for a while, then the Hound gruffly spoke with resignation. "Draw too much attention to ourselves though, to go pillaging through the countryside."

Sansa let out a long breath, and felt her muscles relaxing. She hadn't even realised she'd been tensing them. Lifting her head higher like a lady, she straightened her face as well, back to impassive politeness. She still wasn't looking at Clegane, but she heard him scoff.

* * *

Sansa had been worried when the Hound insisted she couldn't accompany him to negotiate for supplies. Despite his earlier words, she was still a bit fearful he would steal, or worse, even murder these smallfolk. She tried desperately to console herself that he wouldn't do such a monstrous thing, but he had made it so clear in the past that killing meant nothing to him. After pouring scorn onto her for her lack of faith in his word, the Hound eventually made some vague threats and left her alone in a little grove to wait for his return.

It was an ideal time to get some more rest, but even after comfortably curling up in her cloak on the softest patch of moss, Sansa found her nerves were too frayed to fall asleep. Being without Sandor for the first time in what must have been almost a sennight seemed to have a much more dramatic effect on her than she anticipated. Every tiny sound and motion from the surrounding bushes had her jerking her head, and even her horse earned a few worried glances from her.

She hadn't realised how utterly unsafe she now felt without his protection. All the time they'd been travelling, she'd hoped desperately they would be noticed by no-one, strangers as well as pursuers, so that she wouldn't have to witness him kill anyone. But now the thought of meeting even an old huntsman or goatherd made her wish for Clegane's broad back and sword between her and the world.

She realised why Joffrey had always been so confident about what he did and said, even before he was king. If Clegane had been her sworn shield, she would have felt invincible as well. He wasn't really her sworn shield even now though, despite that he was keeping her alive. Clegane had about as much deference towards her as a tomcat.

Sansa sighed at the fact that even in his absence, especially in his absence, she couldn't keep her mind off him. At least she wasn't having those thoughts about him though… Damnation, she cursed internally. There they were, cheerfully making an appearance just for invoking their name.

Strangely though, they didn't bother her as much now she was alone. She supposed having him actually present made them feel more real, and almost like he could hear her thoughts and would at any moment barrage her with mockery. Now she felt free to let them unfurl, memories of touch and taste and smell. Hidden underneath them all she also found non-memories; imaginings of what she wished had been touched, what she desired to feel. Sansa was certain this was a sin.

Her inner body started to feel alive with sensation and she twisted to and fro to let out the energy she could feel building. Odd that she had barely the stamina to sit in the saddle, but this was making her want to kick out her legs and writhe around. She also badly wanted to squeeze her legs together, but the welts from riding were still raised, and they weren't comfortable to touch more than gently.

Finally, Sansa had to concede that no matter how much of a sin it was and how her septa would be crying in the heavens to witness it, she desperately wished to touch herself as the queen had forced her to do. In fact the harder she tried to push the thought from her mind, the harder it became to resist it. She was alone now, and maybe for the last time in quite a while. And it would be nice, it would be better to do it herself. That might then replace the memories of the first time in her mind, and that would be a mercy.

Slipping her hand under her smallclothes, she found herself wet and slick to the touch; but when she raised her fingers there was no moonblood, only clearish mucus. It was revolting to know that was coming from her body, but it did make a difference in the sensation between where it had spread to and where it hadn't. And she was already so dirty and sweaty and sticky… what did a little more stickiness matter?

It was good. So good. There was no pain, so that must have all been from the coupling. Or, she supposed, it did only hurt the first time. Still, she was amazed that this was happening without a man doing anything to her. Rumours had said coupling was an act that was enjoyed but this was good all by itself. There was a… strange emptiness, a sort of lack between her legs, however. She blushed like a roaring fire that the image of Sandor's giant form engulfing her snapped into her mind like it belonged there. And to think of that, also… Sansa moaned like she was feverish. She truly was on fire, and getting hotter by the second.

Suddenly, it happened again. Her legs arched into the air and her body shook a little while she gasped. Then just as suddenly, she slumped lifelessly. That, that, that was what it was. A feeling like her whole body was singing a song. Her already laboured breathing caught. Her body singing a song? Was that… had that been the song the Hound had spoken to her of? Not Florian and Jonquil at all, but the song of a man and a woman?

Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. The queen had had her song, and unwillingly. She hadn't even really given it to Sandor. Although he had sung as well, she realised that now.

It was a little disquieting that this act of hers had still felt a bit lacking despite recapturing that beautiful feeling. There had been no motion, no impact, no rough hands or soft kisses or her body being bent and shaken… Sansa was glad she had seemingly slipped into such a deep fatigue that the recollection no longer inflamed her. This would have to be enough to keep the thoughts and memories at bay until she eventually was wed. If anyone would even wed me now, she cried to herself. Otherwise it just might be her alone in her bed every night, with one terrible memory to think back on every time she felt her blood wickedly heat…

She refused to accept that. If she couldn't forget what had happened, it couldn't be wrong to make new memories to crowd out the bad ones. Sandor might even be willing to help her, if she was right to interpret his request for a song.

No, she was forced to concede, that would be impossible. How could she even go about asking? She could hardly give him sweet words of romance to entreat him. He would know they were false and even if they weren't he would probably laugh himself to death upon hearing them. A grim satisfaction at that thought passed over her, but Sansa shrugged it off.

Perhaps if he simply "accidentally" encountered her in a state of undress he would be overcome and make the proposition for her. That idea appealed to Sansa but the Hound was quite good at sniffing out true intentions. Her duplicity alone might put him off.

Would he pay attention to a command? He had done it to her at the queen's orders. But Sansa hardly had a court executioner to add threat to her words, and she didn't think he would have followed a command of hers even if she had eventually become queen herself. He had no respect for her.

Sansa felt the chill breeze again and kicked her skirts back over her legs. No new ideas were forming in her mind, in fact there was only questioning of the entire concept at all, and she found her eyelids fluttering closed.


	6. Chapter 6: Firebreak

When Sansa awoke it was night, but there was warmth and light surrounding her. With a start, she realised there was a fire, and a few paces from her Clegane sat on the ground with his armour off, doing something with a saddlebag. Groggily she sat up, wondering why he hadn't woken her.

"How long were you gone?" She croaked, then coughed with embarrassment.

"Some time," he said.

"Why didn't you wake me when you got back?" She asked, stretching a little. The movement made her sense the moisture between her thighs and remember what she had done while he was gone. The heat of a blush crawled up her neck and face. Thankfully it was still quite dark, despite the fire. Clegane shrugged.

"Had things to do," he grated out. "Mostly some waiting around, making sure I wasn't followed. Not much point having you pestering me for that."

Sansa ignored the barb, feeling grateful for the extra rest. Clegane continued rummaging through the parcels he had, then threw her a rather unripe-looking pear.

"Here, eat something."

She missed her catch and had to retrieve it from the ground, giving it a wipe with her skirt. She was about to bite it ravenously when she remembered her earlier vow. She looked up at the Hound with twisted lips, unsure of how to phrase her worries. His eyes narrowed.

"It was paid for, and far more than it was worth, too," he spat. Sansa was relieved, and began to eat it with relish despite the lack of juice or flavour. Clegane watched her, with a look of satisfaction and triumph. She smiled at him reflexively.

The relaxed mood and refreshment had her in a better state than she had been in days. Idly she wondered if this was a good time to talk to Clegane about what was going on.

"Do you think we were pursued, then? By the gold cloaks, I mean," Sansa asked.

Clegane nodded. "Not the gold cloaks. It'd be Lannister men," his grin was suddenly queerly savage. "My former men. Haven't noticed any sign of them for quite some time now, but that's no cause to get comfortable."

Sansa was impressed. Just he alone had outwitted and escaped from the Lannister forces. No wonder he was made Kingsguard. How foolish of the queen and king to so repeatedly degrade and misuse him. If he had been her father's vassal, she knew he would have never been so disrespected that he felt willing to break faith with him. If he had been my father's bannerman, she thought morosely, his brother would never have gone unpunished and given a knighthood, and maybe he wouldn't be such an awful man. She wondered what he would think of that notion. Probably it would make him angry.

Thinking about his feelings made her want so badly to ask whether he had been affected by the cruel ordeal. There was a pressure in her breastbone to speak. Sansa knew she had no real intention to lay with him again, how preposterous, but it would bring her some degree of comfort to know his mind on what had occurred between them.

This was a topic, though, about which it seemed impossible to have a polite conversation. Should she ask how he was feeling? No, that was too formal, he would just assume she meant from the fatigues of the journey and nothing would come of it.

With great reluctance, Sansa acknowledged she would have to be direct. It went so against her sense of comfort that she fidgeted and twitched trying to rally herself. She was mortified to see Clegane giving her an odd look. She bit her lip just as Arya had always done and forced the words out of her mouth.

"Did it make you sad, what the queen did? Made us do?" She knew it was impolite, but she couldn't raise her head to look at him. No matter what his expression was, she would lose her nerve if she saw it. He made a noise it took her a moment to interpret as a scoff.

"I'm not a tender maid, girl," he said flippantly.

"So you didn't hate it?" She pressed further. She hoped it hadn't horrified him as it had her. That maybe, he had even found some enjoyment in it as well.

"I hated doing it to you," he hissed into the darkness. The roughness of his voice made it sound very cruel.

He hated doing it, because it was her? Because it hurt her? Or because he had no desire for her, if it was not the act that offended him, but her participation in it? The thought fell on her like a heavy bearskin, weighing her into a dark mood. She knew she was young and didn't have a full woman's body, but she was beautiful. Everyone said so. Isn't that what drove men's passion? In a fit of spite, she decided to drive the nail of misery deeper into her heart.

"Would you have preferred laying with the queen then, instead of me?" She asked petulantly, now keenly watching his reaction. The Hound's head snapped up, and the rage was momentarily gone from his eyes as they filled with bewilderment. It was only brief, and then he was angry again.

"What in the seven hells is wrong with you?" He sneered, lips pulling back from his teeth. It was lopsided, showing different proportions of teeth and gum at each side of his mouth. The effect was to make him look like a snarling dog. No wonder he had that helm made, the thought occurred out of nowhere.

"Well, you said you hated doing it to me," she explained.

"And?" He snapped. "What does that have to do with the bitch queen?"

"I was merely wondering who would you have preferred?" She spoke with a levity that made it seem she was asking what kind of cake he would prefer for supper. All her efforts to keep the discussion civil were for naught, as he seemed to only grow madder.

"I forgot I was talking to an empty-headed bird," he growled, turning away from her. Sansa frowned.

"There's no need to be unkind," she admonished, knowing it was fruitless. Unkind was his state of being. She was curious why the topic had vexed him so strongly. She knew it would be beyond rude to pry, but he was rude himself, so it would simply be a taste of his own medicine.

"Did you ever have a wife?"

He snorted and began pawing through a satchel.

"I was Kingsguard, use your head."

Sansa winced internally at making such a silly mistake.

"Then, did you have a lady lover?"

He turned back to her, but this time it was slow and menacing.

"If you keep talking," he said with a low, gravelly rasp, "I'll bind your mouth shut." He drew his thumb across his lips threateningly. Sansa cocked her head to one side, considering. Would he? He had threatened her in the past, and it had sounded sincere, but none had actually come to pass.

He was obviously deeply affected by her question, though. She hadn't meant much by it, just trying to find out what sort of woman interested him, but now she realised there may be some history there that was painful to him. She had assumed he had no lady - who would ever have romanced with this man? But his reaction spoke differently.

"So you did? Did you have to leave her behind to help me?" That would be terribly painful, to realise she had deprived her saviour of his one source of comfort in life. He must be planning to return to his woman, which meant he would not stay with her when they reached Riverrun. That was sad, also. He deserved an important position in her brother's army. Rather than answer her, Clegane got to his feet and walked over to where the horses were tied.

Sansa sighed, and pulled her knees up to her chest. She wondered who this secret affair of his had been with. Thinking of the ladies she knew from the Red Keep brought none to her mind that had ever spoken fondly of the Hound. She supposed it could always have been with one of the smallfolk or servants.

If that were so, he could have brought her with them, since no-one would miss her. Ah, but this was a dangerous journey. As long as no-one knew she was the Hound's woman, it was better to leave his beloved safe in the city, rather than expose her to the hardship of the road and possible capture by the gold cloaks.

Her tale-weaving was interrupted by Clegane approaching her again, and she looked up to see what he was about. To her shock, he was holding the length of rope that had bound her gelding to his stallion, and his face was murderous. Startled, she jumped to her feet.

"Wha… what are you doing?" She quavered.

"I warned you," he said menacingly, "to shut your mouth or I would shut it for you."

With a cry, Sansa stumbled away from him. The Hound reached out and caught her, snatching her tight to his body with the rope pressed painfully between them.

"I'm sorry!" Sansa immediately began whimpering apologies in an attempt to calm him.

"You're not sorry! You're a stupid girl with a head full of damn foolish stories. How is it possible after everything; Lord Stark's execution, the beatings, the rape, you can still be such a fool?" He shook her, but his words shook her more. With a high pitched sob she broke into tears, uncaring of how ugly it made her look or how improper it was. She was horrified to see that her crying only raised his ire further, as he began snarling with his teeth bare again. She hiccupped and gasped in an attempt to stop the flow, but it was for naught.

"Dogs with ruined faces don't have lady lovers, you witless bird," he hissed, and the anger had flushed his face a shade of red that matched his scars.

"So if there's no-one else, why don't you want me?" She wailed. She didn't really want to know the answer, but something compelled her to ask anyway. It had felt so good! Hadn't it been good for him as well? Had everything he'd done really been under duress, with no desire of his own?

He should have been overjoyed to touch me. He should desperately wish to do it again. It was madness for her to be so upset, and she bit her tongue to make sure none of these thoughts turned into words. The Hound seemed half mad himself.

"What sort of demented vanity is this? Why do you care what I thought of you?" He threw his arms up into the air and turned, stalking away, then back towards her as though he would strike her. Then he turned sharply on his heel, but stayed where he was. "I was just there to torture you since the queen doesn't have a cock of her own. I suppose she's always used the Kingslayers' for her every need." He turned his head and spat into the fire. "What a pity for you that golden knight wasn't there instead of myself."

Sansa had no words to combat his verbal assault. She stepped forward and clung to him, clawing at his tunic and burying her face against his back. Her weeping renewed at an even heavier pace. He jerked away from her and she almost howled, but then his heat was back again, and his hands.

"Stop wailing, you'll bring everyone within a hundred miles down on us," he snapped, his voice tightly controlled. He scooped her up effortlessly and walked over to the closest tree by the fire, sitting down against it with her cradled by his side. She brought his cloak to her face and dabbed at it, managing to subdue her sobs to just hiccups.

"Makes sense you're deranged at the moment, I suppose," he said gruffly, one of his hands leaving her, so only an arm around her shoulders remained. Sansa put her face in her hands, digging in with her nails.

"Everything has gone so wrong, everything is ruined. What the queen did has made me ill with misery. But at the time, it felt so wonderful… and I just… don't want to be unhappy anymore." With deliberate slowness, Sansa took her hands from her face and placed them on his shoulders. The skin of her palms seemed to crackle like lightning. "I… I want to feel wonderful again. Make my misery go away," she begged, she commanded.

Sandor stiffened, and Sansa was amazed at all the individual muscles she could feel tensing under her hands. It sent a strange jolt from her womb to her neck, and she let out a heavy exhale. My body is hungering for him like it does for food, she realised. Do I need this from now on?

She was certain Sandor knew what she wanted him to do, yet he remained aloof from her. His eyes flicked around, avoiding her own, and his body remained stiff. It wouldn't be very seemly for him to require her to speak the words aloud. Gritting her teeth and gathering her courage, she let her right hand slip from his far shoulder and travel down his tunic. The landscape of his body was contoured but firm, almost unyieldingly hard in places. Sansa forgot what she had intended, so enthralled was she by the experience of touching a man so intimately.

It's as though his own skin and flesh is a suit of armour itself, she marvelled. Her gaze moved to his throat, which was bobbing furiously, and then fell to his chest, heaving up and down. If so, I wonder what it protects, and she lay her head on that broad rib cage, and listened to the beat of his heart.

His scent engulfed her; salty, sour and musky, but curiously Sansa felt herself relaxing. There must be something a little bit magical about hearing the rhythm of another person's life, she mused, and her arms lost their tension and lowered, one hand slipping between them to rest on his thigh, and the other falling to his hip.

Until this moment Sandor had sat as though part of the tree he leant against, but as her hands clapped onto his lower body, his whole frame suddenly jerked and shook. Sansa reared back in shock, then remembered that was how he had moved, during the… ordeal. Swiftly and almost involuntarily.

With that in mind she purposely lay her right hand back on his thigh, and was rewarded with a muffled gasp. If I cannot be bold with words, I must be bold with actions, she steeled herself, and laid her second hand next to the first. With weighty determination, Sandor finally moved, taking her wrists into his grasp and removing them from his leg.

"You're not in your right mind," he rumbled, like stones falling down a cliff face. Sansa's embarrassment warred with her frustration at being thwarted, and outrage at his insolent condescension. She looked up at his eyes and found the irises were completely black; with his twisted scars, his glare, he looked like the Stranger come for her.

Three times he has held steel to my throat, she remembered, yet still I live. Sansa pressed forward so her lips hovered over his, almost touching. He opened his mouth a little, whether to better breathe or prevent a kiss, she could not determine.

"Help me feel wonderful," she whispered into his mouth, and as her breath entered him, so too did her intent, it seemed, for he finally took her into his arms. Sandor's hands clasped to her hips, then roughly found their way up and down her body. Sansa felt him squeezing her, both where she was soft and where she was lean.

He almost seemed to move without purpose, spurred entirely by whatever desire gripped him in each instant. His erratic behaviour startled her, but the realisation he was desperate to touch her made her feel more alive than she had been in a long while.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. As his hands roamed her body wildly, the muscles of his shoulders writhed under his skin, and she had to clasp her wrists behind his head rather than hold onto him, or she may have been thrown back by the turbulence of his movement.

Sansa embarrassed herself by making a particularly silly keening noise as his left hand gripped her bottom and kneaded it. She tried to hide her face in his neck, but at the same moment he pushed her back from him and lifted her up. His free hand grabbed at the fabric of her dress and skirts and pulled them up towards her waist.

Sansa was startled, but then glad he wasn't going to make her undress entirely again. The memory of his gaze on her as she was stripped made her face burn scorching hot. She remembered his expression had not changed; his eyes still had rage in them, but as layer after layer of her modesty had been destroyed, something else had entered them as well. It reminded her of the eyes of her siblings' direwolves, though not her sweet Lady, especially when they had watched fowls go past, and had to have a hand placed on them to hold them still. It had made her feel so small, and so vulnerable. Although logic told her it was Cersei she was powerless against, when his eyes were on her the queen had barely seemed to be present.

She could not look into them now for fear of losing her nerve, so she closed her eyes and held her skirts up for him, as he fumbled with her smallclothes. His progress was slow, because he kept pausing to run his fingers over her bare thighs, and lightly pinch the flesh of her inner leg. Sansa tingled with both delight and a little impatience. If she told him to stop one thing though, he might stop everything. She would just have to allow him to do as he pleased.

The first time he had only done what the queen pleased, anyway. She was curious to know what Sandor wanted when he had no commands. But with each scrape of nails and caress of her most tender areas, instead of growing more satisfied she became less and less sure of his intent. What if he didn't want to… put himself inside her at all?

Finally he pulled her smallclothes off her, lifting her legs and hips like she weighed nothing. Sansa felt light-headed, and she both heard and felt each beat of her pulse in her temples. This was without doubt that same peculiar sensation from the first time they came together. Her anticipation rose higher. Suddenly, his fingers found her flower, dipping between the petals firmly, but not too forcefully. The shock and perverse thrill tore a guttural groan from her throat. The Hound's hand snapped away from her, and she instantly straightened, mortified.

"I'm… my apologies," she stammered. Sandor looked shocked as well, but then he licked his lips and looked back down to her hips. Sansa's mouth dropped open in affronted surprise. Once more she had to restrain herself from rebuking him or directing his actions. It was uneasy giving him the lead.

He seemed to be either oblivious or ignoring her frantic desire to be overjoyed in her body, to counterbalance the anguish in her mind. His hands tugged loose her bodice, then reached inside like he was opening a gift. His fingers ran over her breasts, which were immensely tender under his rough skin. She gasped, and he groaned, and then his mouth was hot on her left teat. Sansa writhed in place, though not enough to pull herself out of his mouth. Her voice broke into a lower octave than she had ever reached before when his teeth pierced into her flesh. His head drew back sharply and then shook back and forth; Sansa couldn't tell if it was to admonish himself or clear his senses.

She almost wanted to pull his head back to her bosom, but she would sooner die than do something so presumptuous and coarse. Instead she tried to focus Sandor's attention where it was important, and wiggled her hips that were still placed atop his lap, leaning back and raising her legs slightly.

He certainly paid attention - grasping her thighs and arching forwards over her body, just as she remembered. But then his hands continued their game of roaming and grasping, with his mouth joining in once more. He hadn't made any effort at all to unclothe himself. Sansa tipped her hips again to meet his manhood, and she was quite certain she had found it. Nearly all of him felt the same though - rounded with muscle and unyielding to pressure.

One of his hands found its way into her hair and he grasped a handful beneath her nape, then used it to turn her head this way and that, kissing her ear, her throat, her scalp. It was overwhelming, but still frustrating. Why couldn't he do this while he was inside her? Why was he waiting?

His other hand moved back to her hip and he gently lowered her to the ground. Sansa fairly lifted off it again with anticipation. She even licked her lips, and felt dirty. Then the Hound licked her lips as well, and she felt dirtier. His hips pressed to her centre, where she had made ample room for him by shamelessly spreading her legs wide. Now she was certain what she felt was his manhood, and she panted like a wolf.

His hips bucked against hers like he was entering her, but he didn't, because he still had his breeches on. How can he not notice? Sansa whined to herself. She didn't want to have to ask him. He bucked again, making a deep sound of enjoyment. This is madness, Sansa thought, bewildered.Does he want to or doesn't he?

Finally, desperately, and with tears in her eyes for this fatal blow to her dignity, Sansa reached between them and groped him. Groped the Hound.

Sandor looked as surprised at this turn of events as she felt, and for a moment they just lay there panting and staring at each other. Her fingers twitched as she wondered if she dared undo his lacings, or if that might anger him. Then he moved, whisking her hand away and replacing it with his own, jerking his member out without fanfare, his face still registering bewilderment.

Sansa sighed as happily as when Ser Loras had given her his rose, and felt fleetingly that the Hound was her champion as well, although he was going to give her something quite different. Her relief was replaced by worry once more when she realised Sandor appeared increasingly uncomfortable. She chastised herself for trying to direct events, wishing she had more patience.

Without saying anything, he picked her up and flipped her over, so that she slumped into the dirt on her hands and knees. The pose was grossly undignified, but Sansa barely had a thought for that. The last time she had been on her knees… Her stomach clenched with a sudden fear and the burn inside her began to be replaced by ice as the queen's face floated into her mind.

"No, no, not like this," she begged, and reared backwards and away. She fell sideways, onto her hip in the leaf and grass and dirt. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut to fight the queen's visage. "Not as the queen made me," she whimpered, knowing it was all over, her wish to suffer less only making her suffer more.

Sansa didn't struggle when Clegane picked her up again, pulling her onto his lap and holding her tight. Fear was still coating her insides, but it receded as he supported her upright; just grasping her gently, and demanding nothing.

And continued to demand nothing as she shook off her distress like rain droplets clinging to fine silk. She opened her eyes and could see his neck. His chin; ripped bare of skin but queerly comforting in its undeniable affirmation that it was him.

She would have felt guilty for being soothed by the sight of his burns, if she had not banished all guilt from her mind tonight, like the direwolves could be banished to the godswood.

She took her own turn to touch him, moving her hands across the tunic covering his shoulders and back, up his nape and even running her fingers through his messy, lank hair. There was no queen here, only the Hound, and that night the Hound had… he had…

He had kissed her.

She grew bolder and pulled his tunic up so his skin was pressed to her own where it could. His manhood was wedged against her inner thigh in an awkward, but painfully insistent fashion. Sansa shifted her hips to try and nudge it to the proper place, but the Hound pre-empted her by simply taking himself in hand and directing it to her opening.

His fingers were strangely cool on her flesh, which was slick with moisture, as it had been when she lay under the tree in his absence. But the memory was fleeting, because his touches on this intimate place were like touches on a wound – impossible to ignore, but lacking any pain. Each caress became her whole world in the instant it existed.

His other hand pressed her face close to his shoulder, so she was forced to shut her eyes. Like that, she could have pretended it was not another person who did this to her, but that she was alone, experiencing this by her own hand. Her attempt to convince herself otherwise was in vain; her body knew what was coming, and although they were strained with tension, her legs parted like petals under the summer sun.

She shivered with relief as it entered her, until it kept moving, and she understood it was only barely in. The hand between her legs moved to her hip and he guided her to sit up a little more, and then she could feel it change position inside her to be more easily accommodated, but as his hands pushed her hips down again, the pain from that first night returned.

Sansa bit her lip, and said nothing.

She had what she wanted, and even if it wasn't exactly what she'd hoped, well, when was anything in truth?

"Can I move?" The Hound barked tersely, wrathfully. He still crushed her to his breastbone so she could barely nod, but she managed to mutter something affirmative.

He slumped back against the tree, both hands shifting to clasp her hips unyieldingly, and she felt trapped, but also safe. He moved her then; pushing her, pulling her, rolling her hips back and forth, all of it disgraceful in the extreme, all of what she had hoped for.

She considered she could perhaps move as well, how it was most enjoyable for her. Or she could kiss him once more, or hold him close. But to do so, to participate, was beyond her. To begin this had taken the full capacity of her strength. Her pride had finally snapped like a thread pulled too taunt, leaving her limp.

She kept her face pressed into his skin, breathing him in, and then breathing him out audibly each time he impaled her.

It was slow and peaceful where the ordeal had been fast and brutal. Though his movements were only deceptively gentle; the final impact was uncompromisingly insistent, it simply took longer to get there. The pain thinned with every movement as well, just a faint echo now of her previous agony.

Someone was groaning, and lying breast to breast as they were, Sansa couldn't discern who it was. Nor could she care. There was just one more thing she wanted, one small thing but still so difficult right now.

Sansa could feel that joy building up inside, her limbs tightening in anticipation of it spreading through them. It just wasn't quite right, it wasn't yet…

She hauled one of her limp arms up and pushed it between them, to where they were joined. Her fingers were cold compared to the wet heat they met.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to his neck as she pressed her fingers against her own self, hard.

And there she was, overcome and suffering from pleasure, and Sandor went completely rigid underneath her.

A voice called out to the night plaintively, and Sansa accepted it was her, for surely the Hound could not sing so sweetly.

They lay under the tree together without speaking, but not in silence, as the cold night air was punctuated with heavy breathing. Her heartbeat was in her ears like a drum, and the heat flowing through her body showed she had indeed been burning in some way… burning but unharmed, unfevered. Tingles spread up and down her; she felt good. So good! Even fantastically better than the first time! So this was the secret portion of life kept from the ignorant misuses of children, and allocated only upon reaching responsible adulthood. And now she, Sansa, was an adult.

His skin against hers felt hot as molten metal, so she lifted herself up a little to move apart. As she did, she looked on his solid body, and his ruined face. His eyes were tightly shut, perhaps in exertion or perhaps so he wouldn't see her. As she took in every detail, she noticed his horrible scars seemed less horrible, the sharp angles of his nose and jaw less brutal. Something else grew in her then, and Sansa let it stretch its leaves unhindered. She hadn't felt this after the… the first time, but they had been pressured and interrupted. This must be part of the true act.

She was pleased to discover it was a gentle, peaceful mood, as she might have previously felt when her mother brushed her hair, or she sat reading a book in a comfortable chair. Sansa smiled in understanding. It was satisfaction. She lay down, feeling content. As she looked up into the stars the contentment dimmed in her a little, replaced by an urge to look at Sandor again.

Propping herself back up onto her elbow, she saw his face hadn't changed from before; his eyes were still shut too tight to be natural in sleep or rest, but he otherwise seemed relaxed. She wondered why that might be.

More curious, however, was that the peaceful satisfaction returned in full force. Sansa was intrigued. She closed her eyes, and as the moments passed, it drained away little by little. She opened them again. Just like the firelight flickering over his features, her eyes lit up on every little detail of his face and each one enamoured her bizarrely; made her feel that quiet pleasure. It was amazing!

Sansa knew she was a woman for true now. She would never have thought that a single act bestowed so much knowledge along with it. As she pondered it though, she reasoned that if one had never done it before, eating, drinking or sleeping for the first time would be a revelation of sorts as well. She knew now why her septa had admonished her so strongly that she was never to lie with a man besides her husband. Why hadn't they simply said it was like this, that a tender affinity was made with the man you bedded? So this was why mother always told her love would grow even with a stranger.

She wondered if it was just the first man, or if it happened with every man you lay with. How terrible that must be, to always hold a little piece of so many people inside you. No wonder women of vice were talked against so sternly. Though perhaps, with each man, the former piece faded a little, or was splintered down, until after so many strangers, you didn't feel much of any particular one of them. Or maybe each new one dislodged the old?

Sansa reasoned not, or the Queen wouldn't have thought to do it to her to spoil her future marriage. It was as though the Hound was the weapon Cersei had stabbed her breast with, and he was lodged within her now, somewhere in her chest. It wasn't like love, not at all, that beautiful tingle of happiness when the Knight of Flowers had handed her the rose, or when Joffrey… she squeezed her eyes shut tight.

So it was all lies, she realised. Love was a fleeting lie, the songs about it were lies. It was like a lemon cake. Delicious to eat, but you couldn't live on it. Maybe this new feeling, this quiet appreciation of someone, was what you were supposed to live on, in a marriage. She almost cried again thinking of what it would have been like for this to happen with Joffrey. To be always aware of him, and quiver a little to think of him being absent.

Well, the Queen made a mistake thinking she could ruin her future happiness; she gave Sansa to the wrong man. Sandor would keep anyone else from touching her, until she was found a husband. She rolled over, pressing her nose into his shoulder and inhaling a long breath. As his scent filled her head it brought a new wave of the queer relief with it, and Sansa knew she had become privy to previously hidden knowledge. Sleep pulled her eyes closed, and she felt wise.


	7. Chapter 7: Ceasefire

It was quite a ways through the morning before Sansa had noticed the Hound must be avoiding speaking to her on purpose. She was then shocked to further realise he hadn't said a word to her since he had discouraged her from laying with him the previous night. Was he upset that she had defied his assertion? She wondered if he was as conflicted as she about what was between them.

But why should he be? He was no tender maid, as he himself had declared, and she wasn't an unapproachable behemoth in a demon dog's helm. Why would he have second thoughts about bedding her? Once again she found herself affronted at the thought that she somehow didn't measure up to the Hound's desires for a woman. Maybe he preferred them plump, she considered, or perhaps dark-coloured or as coarse of manners as he himself. Well, Sansa Stark was none of those things, she thought haughtily, and she never would be.

She determined to ignore his silence. Whatever his reasons, the burden would not fall on her to discover them. She'd needed some comfort, and he'd provided it willingly at the time, so she wouldn't waste effort feeling sorry for him now. She had her delicious new memory to savour in place of the bitter one, and the world already felt brighter and more cheerful for it. His dark glowering was just background scenery.

She began asking questions more frequently, partially to make polite conversation and partially to admire his seemingly endless knowledge of the foliage surrounding them. His answers started terse and rude, even condescending that she did not know even simple things about the forest, such as how certain trees sent their seeds to the ground. Her courtesies eventually won over his silent stand-off, and he became open to her once more, or at least as open as he had ever been.

* * *

When they lay down for the night, Clegane faced away from her in their blankets, but Sansa put her arms around him rather than press her back into his own. It was similar to how she had held him when he rescued her from the riot, pulling her behind him on his steed, but much more pleasant, as he wasn't wearing armour and there was nothing to think about or feel except his firm body. She sighed with happiness, cut short when he suddenly stirred. As he turned to face her, his scars looked especially deep and morbid in the dim light. It made her shiver with an instinctual aversion, but her arms came back around him when he settled.

His eyes flicked over her face and down to her collarbone, then up to her hair, but his frown remained fixed, forever mangled so that it was hard to tell if he was sad or angry. Sansa gave him a smile she hoped expressed her happiness that she was safe, fed, and out of Lannister hands. Still frowning, he reached out hesitantly to touch her, giving her shoulder just a gentlest stroke, as though she were soft as butter and might collapse under pressure.

Apparently assured of her structural integrity, he brought his whole palm around to stroke her, and then the other, running his hands down the front of her arms and circling her wrists, before travelling back up to her collarbone and exploring her jaw with his fingertips. Absurdly, it seemed an almost private experience, which Sansa felt she shouldn't interrupt. He looked back to her after a few passes, and she gave him another smile of encouragement.

He began stroking her in earnest then, his hands at first following each other down her curves in a syncing pattern, then breaking apart to discover her independently. He shifted her about, his movements soft yet unyielding, and with an inattentive ease that divulged his strength.

As his grasp transformed from merely inquisitive caresses to bold, squeezing gropes, Sansa was unable to prevent a fluctuating keen from escaping her. The sound provoked him to make one of his own, and he clasped her rump tightly to press her against him.

Sansa felt the hot firmness of his manhood press against her hips, and opened her mouth to gasp just as his own descended on her. He didn't skip a beat at finding it open, flicking his tongue between her lips then running it up her palate. Sansa gargled and squirmed at the intense sensation, but again her reaction only fired him on further. One of his hands left her bottom to pull her knee up to his waist, while the other continued kneading her soft flesh.

Sansa was overcome. She had thought him unhappy with their encounter last night, but his ardour was unmistakable and overwhelming. She sank unresisting into the swirling mix of confusion and passion. She had an impulse from years of tutoring to protest against his presumption to take liberties with her, but she knew she would be upset if he stopped, so she said nothing. Sandor's hands travelled her thighs in tandem, sliding and grasping all at once so she felt like a piece of cloth being wrung out to dry. Sansa utterly forgot all her earlier fears that her form displeased him. Such notions were vaporised before the furnace that was his relentless attention.

His kisses continued, first missing her mouth by chance, then by design as he strove to kiss all over her face, along her jaw, down her neck. His burns felt strange where they pressed against her, but she told herself it wasn't so bad. As his head dipped lower to taste her collarbone, his hair came to her mouth. It smelt of sweat, and still faintly of smoke. _This dog needs a bath_ , she thought, and it made her laugh even though it was unkind.

The sound of her giggles broke through the Hound's single-minded fervour, and he looked back up to her. At first she thought it was with stern reproach, but then she realised it was intense desire for approval. Feeling as magnanimous as any lady granting a boon, Sansa ran her own hands down his neck and along his shoulders, giving him a sweet smile as wordless permission. And so he kissed her again. Kissed and kissed, with his tongue as well as his lips, which made her giggle for a second time at the absurdity. His hands made languid circuits of her skin, pressing hard but leaving her sore muscles limp and feeling better for the attention.

With a moan in his throat, he kissed her once more, then abruptly put his mouth and hands both on the crown of her head. He remained like that, silent, as though holding on to her for support. Sansa couldn't be sure what caused his sudden cessation, or if he was perhaps enjoying her another way, but as the moments went past and his rapid breathing began to slow, she realised his interest in her was over. Over already, before it had started!

She squeezed his shoulders lightly to provoke him, but he gave no indication of noticing. Sansa then shifted her hip to press against him, checking to see if he was still big for her. Was he finished already? But no, he was prominent and hot, and yet paid her no heed.

How could she reinvigorate his interest? She became starkly aware that she may have some role; some part to play of which she was ignorant. Most advice to her had emphasised that her duty was to 'please her husband' or 'let him enjoy her'. It had sounded simple at the time, but now she was unsure. Never having been a bride, she had missed being passed the knowledge of these things by her septa or mother. The edge of her thoughts caught on a memory, of the queen telling her she was doing her the favour of having at least one man.

And the queen had certainly showed her things... but it had been how to touch herself, not her husband. Now she considered Cersei's words, she grasped that perhaps her fate wasn't to become chattel of the court as she had feared, but rather it was her execution that had been imminent. The cruel ordeal was to ensure she was not a maid when she went to the block. It struck her as curious that it was Sansa's own efforts to secure an execution that led her to be here instead, with that one man.

The man that was able to goad her body awake with exhilarating touches and warm kisses, but was content to leave her wide-eyed and wanting; He showed her a possibility and then failed to fulfil it.

Should she do as last time and...? No, surely there was another way!

Bearing in mind the alternatives, Sansa began running her hands all over Clegane's form. It was different to embracing her brothers or father; indeed it was more like cuddling with Lady - a solid, lean body, tense with potential. Sansa put it out of her mind. Even if he was half wild, he was the only person she had right now, and her saviour besides. She should try to focus on his good attributes.

His breathing picked up again as her hands travelled him, wishing she could touch skin instead of cloth. It would be terribly bold to unfasten his belt. She let her hands drop to it, clutching and tugging in a form of plea that couldn't be mistaken. His breath was so hot on her crown she felt herself become faint. It was very difficult to think... and her hands were so close to the buckle... she fingered it clumsily, unable to control herself enough to work what was suddenly an intricate mechanism.

His hand snapped down to hers, gripping them whole like trapped animals in his palm. His mouth stayed on her head, open and panting wetly into her scalp. Sansa's own mouth opened in unconscious mimicry.

"G... girl!" He exclaimed. Sansa wished he would call her by name, even if just in these illicit moments. "I only wanted to touch you, little bird," he huffed. Sansa didn't know what to say to that, so she tugged her arms, trying to break his grasp. It was a futile effort.

"I want to touch you also," she managed to slur, squirming under the haze of heat from without and within. The Hound made a sound suspiciously like a sob, but it must have been muffled in her hair. "Allow me," she pleaded, pulling once more. His grip relaxed slightly, and she was able to squeeze her hands out, though his twitched once more as if reluctant to let go.

Sansa resumed her struggle with the belt, finally managing to work the thick leather loose. But now that she had achieved victory over that despicable barrier, her fingers trembled with fear at delving into his breeches. She had touched him once before, true, but he had been clothed, and now by her own doing she had taken away that thin veneer of propriety.

Instead she let her hand fly to other lacings, dipping under her skirts to find the bows of her smallclothes. She loosened them while the fever heat leached from her and icy shame came in its wake. To be doing this... there was no scope for confusion, no path to convince herself he had forced himself on her. The significance of it terrified her, but to stop was an equal terror. While her mind and body warred, the body of its own devices set in motion a victory.

Conceding, she raised her hips to free her smallclothes, awkwardly removing them while trying not to disturb Sandor's repose against her. When that task was done she was faced again with the unbound belt; in her mind's eye the leather strips were two vipers she had to reach between to prove her daring. Still he remained unmoving, forcing her hand.

It was not right that a man denied a lady's ardour without rebuking her outright. She knew he wanted this as well, enough to not force her to stop. His ruse of indifference infuriated her, pushed her to silence the screaming of her conscience that this was not wise. It suddenly occurred to her that the open belt gave her access not only down, but also up.

With renewed intensity she gathered his tunic and slipped her hands underneath. His skin was hot, his stomach firm and covered in hair that was at one moment coarse and the next soft as she stroked over it. He was breathing so heavily now the wax and wane of his chest was as evident as a winded horse. Sansa only knew she had licked her lips when she felt cold air hit the fresh moistness.

She quickly swung her leg up over his before she could decide it was a bad idea. His hands, previously frozen where she had left them, became animated once more, one sweeping up her head and pressing her body to him, the other gripping the thigh that rested on his hip. Her own arms were crushed between them, but the panic of helplessness was strangely enticing. She twitched a little, testing the strength of his grasp, but only a little. She didn't want him to let go.

He hitched her leg higher, opening her up, and Sansa anticipated with both anxiety and relish the warm firmness at her entrance that was sure to soon follow. But instead it was his fingers that found her shameful wetness. Part of his hand stroked over her curls, while others delved deeper until they were at her inner places.

"Oh gods that's soft," he huffed into her hair. Sansa hoped being soft was desirable. With her head pressed into his chest, she wasn't able to see his face, and the fancy took her to pretend it was not the Hound she was lying with, but her lord husband, whoever he would be. This was their wedding night, and she was doing nothing wrong. It was right to enjoy this.

His fingers were clumsy on her, sometimes brushing over the places that made her melt and other times missing them. She wanted to tell him to touch her higher, but her mouth wouldn't let such a degenerate thing pass out of it. She tried to imagine it was the Knight of Flowers who had stolen her away, and was caressing her. The notion made her spine curl with embarrassment and guilt at thinking a true knight would do such a dirty thing. If it had been Ser Loras the queen had forced on her, and he'd stolen her away, he would have lain his sword between them and begged her forgiveness for soiling her. Two of the Hound's fingers entered her and spread apart the sensitive flesh. She found herself making a strange cooing noise in her throat.

No, this man was no knight. He was a beast, and he would take her on the forest floor like one. Immediately as that thought had entered her mind her womb was struck by lightning, her hips and shoulders rolling in indecent enjoyment. She gasped and gasped as her body was filled almost to bursting with joy. She didn't quite reach that beautiful height, and squirmed in frustration, desperate now for him to be inside.

"Put it...," she tried pathetically. Sandor pulled his fingers out with an appalling squishing sound, and then rolled her unresisting onto her back. His bulky form moved over her and shrouded her in darkness, but even though she couldn't well make out his features, her illusion of a bridal bed had been shattered by the reality of who she was with and what he was doing to her.

 _The Hound, the Hound, the Hound_ , her mind goaded her, spiteful for having lost against her body. He made to gently spread her legs further, and by themselves they opened wide for him. _Wanton_ , her thoughts mocked. But then she felt _it_ , and no thoughts came to her anymore.

It still hurt a little, a faint sting of disapproval sent from her septa, she was sure. He carefully filled her up, then fell forwards, catching himself on one arm, the other still clenching her thigh in a death grip. Sansa brought her arms up around him, pulling him down so his heart beat against her cheek. The pleasure, the heat, the fear, the guilt, the smell; it was all exquisite.

As he slid in and out ever-so-gently, Sandor began whispering into her hair, but Sansa could decipher nothing through the harsh scrape of his voice. Trying to listen distracted her from the sensations in her womb, so she paid no heed to it, closing her eyes and just letting herself enjoy it all. She wanted more, she wanted it faster. She brought her legs up around so her ankles hooked at the base of his spine, and tried to pull him into her harder, but it was no use. His hips stopped where he wanted them to stop, and no matter how she pushed or pulled with her legs, it had no effect.

And yet Sandor was not unaware of what she was doing. Almost imperceptibly she felt the tempo increase, each movement just a little more substantial than the one before.

"Yes," she sighed, and conceded to merely let her legs follow his hips in time with the rhythm, tugging just a little at the end of each arc to encourage him. She hazily wished he would speak to her properly, instead of rasping into her crown as if muttering incantations.

She heard what sounded like her name. _Sansa._

 _Say it out loud_ , she entreated silently. She wanted to hear him say her name with need, not call her girl or little bird or lady. She was more than any of those things. She was Sansa. But had she called him by his name, either? She struggled with herself momentarily, the word on the tip of her tongue. But it was too much, too intimate. _Especially during this_ , she decided. She was still a lady, after all, and he was merely a soldier.

Instead she leaned her head back and wriggled forward, trying to reach his face with her own. They had to kiss again. It wouldn't be right otherwise. Sandor did not notice her efforts; his eyes were shut tight, his mouth open and panting. Seeing his expression struck her in a strange way. She couldn't have described the feeling, but Sansa knew she liked it. She reached up and brought his head down to hers with force. Whether he allowed her from shock or desire didn't matter. His mouth was as she remembered it; part dry but soft, part hard and foreign, and all of it unique only to him. His tongue pierced into her hungrily, pushing her own aside, licking it, licking inside.

Now he was thrusting forcefully into her, his hips impacting hers with delicious potency. He started making sounds that were curiously out of place for him, moans and whines mixed together with the occasional lewd grunt.

Sansa watched through slitted eyes as he began to unravel, his movements so quick and forceful she could hear her teeth rattle. _This is a man's beauty_ , she decided. Somehow she didn't think that was what her septa had intended. The notion made her giggle and almost in response, Sandor's body went rigid. But suddenly he pushed away from her forcefully and out of her. Sansa felt the heat of his seed on the back of her thighs and horror overwhelmed her.

"No! Why did you do that?" She wailed. Her fists were suddenly clenched around his tunic and she shook back and forth as she tried to affect him. The Hound regarded her with absolute shock, but then understanding of her complaint hit him, and his face changed to familiar fury.

"Don't you know how children are made?" He growled, clearly angry at having an enjoyable moment spoiled.

"Of course! But, you can't do that! Otherwise it's not... right! I want it to feel like it did before," she mewled, an agony in her chest warning of tears approaching. She was bereft of pleasure both in body and mind, and it pained her in her heart how badly this had all gone. And after the last time had been so good...

"I don't want to father a bastard!" he roared. Sansa rolled onto her side and suppressed a sob. Maybe he was right, but it still felt terribly wrong. This wasn't how it should go. They had to kiss, and then enjoy each other, and then finish while still joined.

Sansa had believed she wanted to know what Sandor desired to do of his own accord, but it seemed when it did not align with what she herself needed, it threw her into miserable discord. The same sort of turmoil she had sought his attentions to avoid. His weighty hand grasped her and rotated her back to face him.

"Don't be a fool," he said only marginally more gently, hissing through closed teeth. Sansa whimpered. Even sitting down his height was intimidating, so she scrambled upright herself to give her courage.

"I just want to be… fulfilled, and when it's... not like before... it doesn't fulfil me," she tried to explain. Clegane's face instantly hardened, and he jerked back from her. "I want to feel like you-" she began, then recognised the end of her thought and abruptly cut it short. His eyes narrowed.

"Feel like I what?" He asked in a low rattle. Sansa shook her head, then again to clear her hair from her face.

"Nothing," she whispered. Sandor's hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her towards him.

"Say it," he demanded into the crown of her hair. Sansa hesitated. She had never been good at thinking of excuses, never, and especially not right now when it seemed her whole head and body were in tumult.

"I...," It was too much. Why had she even thought it? It would not be possible for her to say it. But she knew he would not be placated until he had an answer, and she was too panicked to create a lie. "I want to feel like-" Why was her voice so squeaky? "Like you can't stop yourself. Like you desire me sorely."

There was only awkward silence. Sansa pawed against his arm nervously. "But that would be a lie, since you obviously can stop," she mumbled, barely able to hear herself. There was another moment of uncomfortable tension. Sansa resisted the temptation to press a hand against her face where it burned with either shame or approaching tears.

Her focus on preventing moving made his own actions a sudden shock. His hands gently bent her shoulders forwards, until the crown of her head pressed against his heart. Sansa felt a little awed by the intimacy, as though he were making up for what he was not willing to give her. Abruptly, he bent over as well, and she felt the Hound's teeth claim the nape of her neck, hard enough to hurt. Her body spasmed and then went almost slack, like an abandoned puppet. To her horror, she discovered she was whimpering.

Her womb was still wet and hungry, lacking the sickening feel of seed filling it. She gasped in air, not seeming to get any relief from each lungful. The Hound was breathing deeply above her as well. She could sense the heat of each exhalation on her skin. Never before had she witnessed him so closely resemble the animal of his namesake.

 _Maybe he is more animal than man_ , she marvelled. Sansa considered that he could keep her in the forest forever if he wanted, living like wild beasts. Just as fear was beginning to gain precedence over her womb-hunger, his teeth left her neck, but were replaced by his wet tongue. He licked the sore marks he had left on her flesh. Was this a consolation as well?

"Don't offer yourself to me, girl," the Hound whispered threateningly. "I'll take everything you have and leave not even scraps for your family."

Sansa looked to the ground, and shuffled away from him. She had thought right. He could steal her into the deep forest and make her a prisoner again. Maybe that's what he'd be compelled to do if his child grew within her.

Chastened, she wriggled back into her bedroll and curled away to the darkness. Her inner parts still called out for attention, so she slipped her hand between her legs and pressed it there. It was pleasing, but her body was hollow without him there, filling her up.

 _I suppose once a woman's seal is broken she is an empty vessel and longs to be filled,_ she pondered. _Perhaps when a babe is in you, you are full the whole time and never want for a man._ It made sense. Her body must want Sandor because it wanted a baby, now that she was a true woman. The idea was terrifying in a way none of his violent outbursts or hissed threats ever were. She could not carry the Hound's child.

"I understand," she told Clegane without turning over. There was no response, but she hadn't expected one.


End file.
